Beth Woodburn Part 5

Friday morning came, the last day of September, and the train whistled sharply as it steamed around the curve from Briarsfield with Beth at one of the car-windows. It had almost choked her to say good-bye to her father at the station, and she was still straining her eyes to catch the last glimpse of home. She could see the two poplars at the gate almost last of all, as the train bore her out into the open country. She looked through her tears at the fields and hills, the stretches of woodland and the old farm-houses, with the vines clambering over their porches, and the tomatoes ripening in the kitchen window-sills. Gradually the tears dried, for there is pleasure always in travelling through Western Ontario, particularly on the lake-side, between Hamilton and Toronto.

Almost the first one Beth saw, as the train entered Toronto station, was Clarence, scanning the car-windows eagerly for her face. Her eyes beamed as he came toward her. She felt as if at home again. Marie had secured her room for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased air when the cab stopped on St. Mary's street. It was a row of three-storey brick houses, all alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with the maples in front, and Victoria University at the end of the street. A plump, cheery landlady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she did just what hundreds of other girls have done in her place--sat down on that big trunk and wept, and wondered what "dear old daddy" was doing. But she soon controlled herself, and looked around the room. It was a very pretty room, with rocker and table, and a book-shelf in the corner.

There was a large window, too, opening to the south, with a view of St.

Michael's College and St. Basil's Church. Beth realized that this room was to be her home for the coming months, and, kneeling down, she asked that the presence of Christ might hallow it.

She was not a very close follower of Christ, but the weakest child of G.o.d never breathed a prayer unheard.

It was such a pleasant treat when Marie tapped at the door just before tea. It would be nice to have Marie there all winter. Beth looked around the tea-table at the new faces: Mrs. Owen, at one end of the table, decidedly stout; Mr. Owen, at the other end, decidedly lean. There were two sweet-faced children, a handsome, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie at her side.

The next day, Clarence took Beth over to 'Varsity--as Toronto University is popularly called--and she never forgot that bright autumn morning when she pa.s.sed under the arch of carved stone into the University halls, those long halls thronged with students. Clarence left her in the care of a gentle fourth-year girl. Beth was taken from lecturer to lecturer until the registering was done, and then she stopped by one of the windows in the ladies' dressing-room to gaze at the beautiful autumn scenery around--the ravine, with its dark pines, and the Parliament buildings beyond. Beth was beginning to love the place.

We must not pause long over that first year that Beth spent at 'Varsity.

It pa.s.sed like a flash to her, the days were so constantly occupied. But her memory was being stored with scenes she never forgot. It was so refreshing on the brisk, autumn mornings to walk to lectures through the crimson and yellow leaves of Queen's Park: and, later in the year, when the snow was falling she liked to listen to the rooks cawing among the pines behind the library. Sometimes, too, she walked home alone in the weird, winter twilight from the Modern Language Club, or from a late lecture, her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then there were the social evenings in the gymnasium, with its red, blue and white decorations, palms and promenades, and music of the orchestra, and hum of strange voices. It was all new to Beth; she had seen so little of the world. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A. gave to the "freshettes"--she enjoyed that, too. What kind girls they were! Beth was not slow to decide that the "'Varsity maid" would make a model wife, so gentle and kindly and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still Beth made hardly any friendships worthy of the name that first year. She was peculiar in this respect. In a crowd of girls she was apt to like all, but to love none truly. When she did make friends she came upon them suddenly, by a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and became so absorbed in them she forgot everyone else. This friendship with Marie was another feature of her present life that pleased her. She had dropped out of Sunday-school work. She thought city Sunday-schools chilly, and she spent many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room. She liked to sit there in the rocker by the grate fire, and listen to Marie talk as she reclined in the cushions, with her dark, picturesque face. They talked of love and life and books and music, and the world and its ways, for Marie was clever and thoughtful. In after years Beth looked back on those Sunday afternoons with a shadow of regret, for her feet found a sweeter, holier path. Marie prided herself on a little tinge of scepticism, but they rarely touched on that ground. The twilight shadows gathered about the old piano in the corner, and the pictures grew dimmer on the wall, and Marie would play soft love-songs on her guitar, and sometime Beth would recite one of her poems.

"Have you finished the novel you were writing last summer, Beth?" asked Marie, one day.

"No, there are just three more chapters, and I am going to leave them till holidays, next summer, so I can give them my full time and attention."

"Tell me the story."

Then Beth sat by the fire with a dreamy look on her face and told the plot of her story. Marie leaned forward, a bright, delighted sparkle in her dark eyes. Beth had never interested her like that before. She felt encouraged, and Marie was in raptures when she had finished.

"It's just splendid! Oh, Beth, how clever you are; you will be famous soon. I shall be proud of your friendship."

Beth did not enjoy as much of the company of Clarence as she had hoped during these days, though he always brought her home from church on Sunday evening. Marie was always with them. Beth never thought of leaving her, and Clarence, too, seemed to enjoy her company. Beth was pleased at this; she liked to have Clarence appreciate her friends.

Then, they three often went to the musical concerts; Beth liked those concerts so much, and Marie's face would fairly sparkle sometimes, and change with every wave of music.

"Just look! Isn't Marie's face grand?" said Clarence one night in a concert.

Beth only smiled. That night she sat in the rocker opposite her mirror and looked at her own reflection.

"What a grave, grey-eyed face it is!" she thought. She loved music and beautiful things, and yet she wondered why her eyes never sparkled and glowed like Marie's. She wished they had more expression. And yet Marie was not a pretty girl: no one would have thought for a moment of calling her pretty.

But what of Arthur? Beth was surprised that during all this time she had seen him but once, though she lived so near to Victoria. That once was in the University hall. She had studied late one afternoon, in the reading-room, after the other girls were gone, and it was just where the two corridors met that she came face to face with Arthur. He stopped, and inquired about her studies and her health, and his eyes rested kindly upon her for a moment; but he did not speak to her just like the old Arthur. "Good-bye, Beth--little Beth." She recalled the words as she pa.s.sed down the long, deserted hall, with its row of lights on either side.

There was another thing that touched Beth. It was when Marie left them just before the examinations in the spring; she was going to visit some friends. Sweet Marie! How she would miss her. She sat by the drawing-room window waiting to bid her good-bye. It was a bright April day, with soft clouds and a mild breeze playing through the budding trees. Marie came down looking so picturesque under her broad-brimmed hat, and lifted her veil to receive Beth's farewell kiss. Beth watched her as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence came hurrying up to clasp her hand at the gate. He looked paler, Beth thought; she hoped he would come in, but he turned without looking at her window and hurried away. Beth felt a little sad at heart; she looked at the long, empty drawing-room, and sighed faintly, then went back upstairs to her books.

And what had that winter brought to Beth? She had grown; she felt it within herself. Her mind had stretched out over the great wide world with its millions, and even over the worlds of the sky at night, and at times she had been overwhelmed at the glory of earth's Creator. Yes, she had grown; but with her growth had come a restlessness; she felt as though something were giving way beneath her feet like an iceberg melting in mild waters. There was one particular night that this restlessness had been strong. She had been to the Modern Language Club, and listened to a lecture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needler. She had never read any of Whitman's poetry before, she did not even like it. But there were phrases and sentences here and there, sometimes of Whitman's, sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that awakened a strange incoherent music in her soul--a new chord was struck. It was almost dark when she reached her room, at the close of a stormy winter day. She stood at her window watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud piled upon each other in the west. Strife and glory she seemed to read in that sky. She thought of Whitman's rugged manliness, of the way he had mingled with all cla.s.ses of men--mingled with them to do them good. And Beth's heart cried out within her, only to do something in this great, weary world--something to uplift, to enn.o.ble men, to raise the lowly, to feed and to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, to lift men--she knew not where. This cry in Beth's heart was often heard after that--to be great, to do something for others. She was growing weary of the narrow boundaries of self. She would do good, but she knew not how. She heard a hungry world crying at her feet, but she had not the bread they craved. Poor, blinded bird, beating against the bars of heaven! Clarence never seemed to understand her in those moods: he had no sympathy with them. Alas, he had never known Beth Woodburn; he had understood her intellectual nature, but he had never sounded the depths of her womanly soul. He did not know she had a heart large enough to embrace the whole world, when once it was opened. Poor, weak, blinded Clarence! She was as much stronger than he, as the star is greater than the moth that flutters towards it.

CHAPTER VII.

_ENDED._

June was almost over, and Beth had been home a full month on that long four months' vacation that university students are privileged to enjoy.

She was very ambitious when she came home that first vacation. She had conceived a fresh ideal of womanhood, a woman not only brilliantly educated and accomplished, but also a gentle queen of the home, one who thoroughly understood the work of her home. Clarence was quite pleased when she began to extol cooking as an art, and Dr. Woodburn looked through the open kitchen-door with a smile at his daughter hidden behind a clean white ap.r.o.n and absorbed in the mysteries of the pastry board.

Aunt Prudence was a little astonished, but she never would approve of Beth's way of doing things--"didn't see the sense of a note-book and lead-pencil." But Beth knew what she was doing in that respect.

Then there were so many books that Beth intended to read in that vacation! Marie had come to the Mayfair's, too, and helped her to pa.s.s some pleasant hours. But there was something else that was holding Beth's attention. It was Sat.u.r.day evening, and that story was almost finished, that story on which she had built so many hopes. She sat in her room with the great pile of written sheets before her, almost finished; but her head was weary, and she did not feel equal to writing the closing scene that night. She wanted it to be the most touching scene of all, and so it had to be rolled up for another week. Just then the door-bell rang and Mrs. Ashley was announced, our old friend Edith Mayfair, the same sweet, fair girl under another name.

They sat down by the window and had a long chat.

"Have you seen the new minister and his wife yet?" asked Edith.

"No; I heard he was going to preach to-morrow."

The Rev. Mr. Perth, as the new Methodist minister, was just now occupying the attention of Briarsfield.

"It's interesting to have new people come to town. I wonder if they will be very nice. Are they young?" asked Beth.

"Yes. They haven't been married so very long."

"Edith"--Beth hesitated before she finished the quietly eager enquiry--"do you still think marriage the best thing in the world?"

Edith gave her friend a warm embrace in reply. "Yes, Beth, I think it the very best thing, if G.o.d dwell in your home."

"That sounds like Arthur," said Beth.

"Do you ever hear of him. Where is he?"

"I don't know where he is," said Beth, with a half sigh.

Clarence walked home with Beth to dinner, after church, the next morning.

"How do you like the new minister?" Beth asked.

"Oh, I think he's a clever little fellow."

"So do I," said Beth. "He seems to be a man of progressive ideas. I think we shall have bright, interesting sermons."

Marie was slightly ill that Sunday, and did not come out. Clarence and Beth took a stroll in the moonlight. The world looked bright and beautiful beneath the stars, but Clarence was quieter even than usual, and Beth sighed faintly. Clarence was growing strangely quiet and unconfidential. He was certainly not a demonstrative lover. Perhaps, after all, love was not all she had dreamed. She had painted her dreamland too bright. She did not acknowledge this thought, even to her own soul; but her heart was a little hungry that summer night. Poor Beth! Before another Sabbath she was to know a greater pain than mere weariness. The flames were being kindled that were to scorch that poor heart of hers.

It was about ten o'clock the next night when she finished her novel.

Somehow it gave her a grave feeling. Aunt Prudence was in bed, and Dr.

Woodburn had gone out into the country to a patient, and would not return till midnight. The house was so still, and the sky and the stars so beautiful; the curtains of her open window just moved in the night air! It was all ended now--that dreamland which she had lived and loved and gave expression to on those sheets of paper. Ended! And she was sitting there with her pen in her hand, her work finished, bending over it as a mother does over her child. She almost dreaded to resign it to a publisher, to cast it upon the world. And yet it would return to her, bringing her fame! She was sure of that. The last scene alone would make her famous. She could almost see the sweet earnest-eyed woman in her white robes at the altar; she could hear the sound of voices and the tread of feet; she was even conscious of the fragrance of the flowers.

It was all so vivid to her!

Then a sudden impulse seized her. She would like so much to show it to Clarence, to talk to him, and feel his sympathy. He never retired much before midnight, and it was scarcely ten minutes' walk. She would get back before her father returned, and no one would know. Seizing her hat, she went quietly out. It was a freak, but then Beth had freaks now and then. A great black cloud drifted over the moon, and made everything quite dark. A timid girl would have been frightened, but Beth was not timid.

She knew Clarence was likely to be in the library, and so went around to the south side. The library window was quite close to the door of the side hall, and as Beth came up the terrace, through the open window a picture met her eyes that held her spell-bound.

Clarence and Marie were sitting side by side on the sofa, a few feet from the window. Marie's dark face was drooping slightly, her cheeks flushed, and her lips just parted in a smile. There was a picture of the Crucifixion on the wall above them, and rich violet curtains hanging to one side. One of Marie's slender olive hands rested on the crimson cushions at her side, the other Clarence was stroking with a tender touch. Both were silent for a moment. Then Clarence spoke in a soft, low tone:

"Marie, I want to tell you something."

"Do you? Then tell me."